


wherever you are is the place i belong

by g_uttertrash



Series: domestic monsters [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Magic, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Domestic, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Getting to Know Each Other, House Cleaning, M/M, Magic-Users, Monsters, Moving In Together, Siren, Witches, Yes that is a tag, i just needed a scene like in fantasia/cinderella, or alternatively that video of the guy who caught his roommate cleaning and dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-06
Updated: 2015-01-06
Packaged: 2018-03-06 07:08:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3125504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/g_uttertrash/pseuds/g_uttertrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So a witch, a vampire, a werewolf, and a siren all move into a house together... It's not a joke, it's Harry Styles' life, but sometimes it feels that way. </p><p>(Niall and Zayn get jobs, Harry cleans out his feelings, and Louis learns some very interesting things about one of his new flatmates...)</p>
            </blockquote>





	wherever you are is the place i belong

**Author's Note:**

> i changed my username here to better reflect the GARBAGE that i am  
> when i got back from chicago, i had every intention of writing and then i just...didn't, holidays and family drama, ya'know  
> but ANYWAY here's this which is pretty much just fluffy nothing, and i'm already working on the next chapter, hopefully it won't take as long
> 
> happy new year!
> 
> this whole idea is loosely based on [this](http://moniquill.tumblr.com/post/66494076079/necrotype-domestic-monsters-the-witch) tumblr post and the title is from, of course, one direction's "ready to run"
> 
> this is for leni for being the cutest most patient person in the whole wide world <3

_March_

Harry isn’t sure who brings it up first, probably Niall, but just like that, they’re looking for places to live for the four of them.

They’ve known each other in their little quartet for a grand total of five months. When Harry remarks on it to all of them, Zayn looks thoughtful, Niall shrugs, and Louis simply says, “Great loves have been built on less.” Harry finds this surprisingly comforting and doesn’t bring it up again.

And what a five months it was. It started with Niall texting them first, asking if they wanted to come up for the weekend, have a pint. The first night was great: both Harry and Zayn drank a little too much, and ended up crashing on the couch in Niall and Louis’ tiny flat. After that, it just became a regular thing: Each weekend, they’d go up to London and spend time with Niall and Louis. Some nights they’d go out to drink and Niall would talk about working as a sous chef and Louis would always look like he’d just woken up and sometimes he talked a little oddly, saying things that sounded to Harry like they were kind of old, but it was so much fun just to _know_ both him and Niall.

Niall was funny, always laughing and able to make everyone else laugh at the same time. He was caring, too, and always wanted to know everything about their days and what they’d been getting up to, genuine and warm and bright. Louis, too, was so witty and smart, really clever and able to whip back sarcastic remarks to just about anything Niall could throw at him, it was mesmerizing to watch them go back and forth. He, too, wanted to know just about everything about them; he had a thirst for knowledge in the sense of knowing them, of discovering every facet of their lives. Harry just loved to watch him talk all the time; there was something so rich and learned about him that it sounded to Harry’s ears like poetry, like a story just waiting to be told, and he found himself constantly hanging on every word in rapt fascination. There was something so spell-binding about Louis that he just couldn’t stop.

Niall and Louis showed them all around London: their favorite pubs, their beloved hole-in-the-wall cafes, and soon enough, they were coming up during the week when Zayn’s students were on holiday and Harry could get time off from his desk job at the local vet’s office. They spent the night, sleeping on the couch and on the floor in Niall and Louis’ cozy little flat, playing FIFA late into the night and knocking back pints and shots, breathless and teary-eyed with laughter; buying armfuls of ingredients so Harry could cook with Niall, the two of them running the kitchen like it was a professional operation, laughing and chattering back and forth, exchanging recipes. Harry would never admit to it, but sometimes it hurt his feelings that Louis never ate the food they made together, always claiming he wasn’t hungry or he’d just eaten, but Niall always just shrugged and said that was how Lou was.

They saw films at the cinema and drove Niall and Louis out for a weekend to go camping and went to gigs in the city and met Niall and Louis’ friend Liam, the bartender at the restaurant where Niall worked. They all went out on a fishing trip one weekend that resulted in Niall being pushed into a lake and spending the evening wrapped in a blanket, his clothes hanging from trees to dry, but he still managed to smile and laugh as they told embarrassing stories over the fire, chuckling into their beers and passing spliffs around.

They got up early some mornings and played footie out on the green over by their flat minus Louis who loved footie but refused to wake up that early according to Niall. They even went shopping for Christmas gifts together and had a Secret Santa (which is how they finally, _finally_ , got a nice fish tank for Remus, who was growing rapidly in his little bowl), and went out to a gay club for New Years Eve, slinging back shots and dancing together in a tightknit little group, wearing handfuls of beads and funny, glittery sunglasses that were handed out at the door. Louis danced with Harry all night and they kissed once more, but that was it, just a quick silly peck as Louis was tucking Harry into his space on the couch and Harry tried to brush it off, because Louis didn’t mention it at all the next day. True, he was _sleeping_ all the next day and didn’t answer Harry’s texts until nightfall, but he didn’t want to get his hopes up too high. After all, they’d only kissed twice. They texted every day, but then again, so did Zayn and Louis, Niall and Harry. They were a group now.

And Harry liked that. He loved Zayn and Niall the same way that they loved him, and each other. But he also really wanted it to just be him and Louis sometimes, the way it was when they texted.

Because when they texted, it felt to Harry like he was the only one in the world. Louis wasn’t always the best texter, grammatically speaking, but the things he said and asked… He wondered about Harry’s childhood and his love of animals and commended him for his job at the vet’s office and talked to him about nineteenth century literature and his immense love of music, some of which seemed _ancient_ to Harry but magical to hear about, and if there was anything Harry knew, it was magic. His favorite thing about Louis so far was that he asked about Harry’s dreams and what he wanted for his future, utterly fascinated when Harry admitted it was to open a little herb shop for his plants and (though he didn’t tell Louis this) as a cover for his spellwork so he could move his things out of the basement at he and Zayn’s place. Louis thought _he_ was fascinating. Harry was unaccustomed to the feeling of someone’s total and undivided attention before, especially one so gratifying and enthralled as Louis’.

If he didn’t notice certain things—certain _obvious_ things—it was because he was just so happy.

It was the third night in a row that they’d seen Niall and Louis that it occurred to Harry: he had clothes at their flat, a second toothbrush, and enough movies that they could probably open their own cinema to replay the classics by that point—but that wasn’t what caught him. What caught him was that he had _other_ things there: the scarf Zayn had bought him, the one he’d been wearing when they all met; a tiny potted rosemary plant growing in the window, its scent tickling the insides of Harry’s nose; and a handful of crystals, all hidden in different places for protection and light.

And just like that, they’re all shopping around for a place to fit all of their intertwined lives.

Trying to find a place for all of them, however, is infinitely more challenging than he’d ever imagined. Zayn needs some place close to the sea. Louis likes places where it rains a lot. Niall says he’d like somewhere with a forest around. And Harry himself doesn’t particularly enjoy the city. He’s drawing a blank several weeks into it when, by some stroke of good luck or magic perhaps, Harry inherits a house.

His great-great-aunt Delilah has just died and she’s left him a house. He’s rather sad at first because he was always fond of great-great-aunt Dee—she taught him how to make his own broomstick when he was a child—but it was her time. So he lit a candle for her memory and went out one afternoon to inspect it with Zayn.

 “So?” Zayn asks. “What do you think?” He pushes his sunglasses a bit further up his nose, readjusting his grip on the parasol he’s clutching. It’s a peacock-blue lace arabesque design, casting swirls and shadows over his exquisite face. Gold tassels hang down around the edge, swinging with every one of his movements.

“I think it looks…” Harry takes a deep breath, letting it out with a grin. “ _Perfect_.”

The shrubs out front are wild and overgrown, nearly overtaking the steps and veranda. Stone steps lead up to the wraparound porch but its wooden slats are sagging, the paint peeled away. The clapboard siding of the entire house has lost its paint, turned a dull gray by the weather, by the seasons, by time. The shutters are broken and falling crookedly from the grimy, dark windows, staring down at Harry with a faint sense of foreboding. An eerie iron railing lines the rooftops and a spire rises from the middlemost tower, over the attic.

All it needs is a stormy nighttime backdrop with a slash of lightning through the sky to make it the complete picture. He claps his hands together happily.

Zayn glances over at him, eyebrows raised. He’s got a water bottle raised in his free hand, bringing it to his mouth. With who he is— _what_ he is—it’s important he stays hydrated at all times. “But it looks like a haunted house. Aren’t you scared of them?”

“Yes, but it’s not haunted, _obviously_.” Harry pauses for a moment, frowning. “Unless my great-great-aunt Delilah is still in there somehow.”

“We’ll do a sweep, yeah?”

They do, and when Harry is convinced, burning cedar and sage and scattering salt around the entire property, the only thing Zayn says is, “Well, better take loads of pictures for Lou and Niall. They’ll want to see before we move out here.”

It’s only an hour’s drive from the ocean and there’s a forest surrounding the entire town. Not only that, but it rains through most of the summer and fall. Harry imagines he can hear the surf crashing on the rocks and he knows, this is the perfect place for them. They were meant to have it.

Niall is absolutely buzzing about it when Harry shows him all the pictures, asking about the woods and the wildlife there, about how close their neighbors are, pretty standard questions in his opinion. Louis looks it over, admires how dark it seems to be inside, even during the day. He smiles at Harry and Harry can hardly breathe. They haven’t kissed since the night they met, _really_ kissed, but Louis seems to always let him know he’s thinking of it with slow soft touches and wicked smiles with teeth that are just a little too sharp sometimes, almost like he’s a—but of course not, they’re not _real_. Harry thinks about it a lot, too, especially now when Louis’ grinning at him like that. The kiss, not his teeth, though if Harry _is_ thinking about them, they’re pretty cute, too.

“Halloween Harry,” he says, pulling gently on one of his curls. “Looks like you’ve outdone yourself. So, where is this charming abode?”

And that’s how, a month later, they’re living in Greater Gloomingshire.

“As opposed to Lesser Gloomingshire?” Louis muses.

“It’s Smaller, not Lesser. And it’s about ten miles south, so watch it.”

Louis just grins. It’s like his natural state of being, witty and charming. Harry can’t get enough of him, and he’s not entirely sure how he’s going to survive living together, but he’s willing to try if Louis is.

* * *

 The day they’re moving, Zayn is annoyed because Louis and Niall don’t even get there until after the sun has gone down, leaving him and Harry to spend the entire afternoon there alone. Harry tries to make up for it, suggesting they explore the property and some of the woods surrounding, and that _does_ take his mind off of it for a while, but as soon as they get back to the house to sit on the porch, a scowl is darkening his face.

“Have you tried ringing ’em again?”

Harry nods. “Niall says they stayed up a little too late drinking and weren’t finished packing, so it’s taking a bit longer.”

Zayn growls under his breath and Harry laughs. “Like you’ve never stood me up before!”

“Yeah, but I always tell you, and I apologize for it after.”

Harry pats Zayn’s shoulder. “It’s all right, mate. Any minute now.” To help him out, he rolls him a spliff and adds a quick bit of calming magic, just to be sure. It’s not a lot, just a pinch, but he’s hoping it’ll do the trick. Normally he doesn’t like to do spells on people without their permission—it's _kind_ of not allowed—but sometimes, it’s a necessary evil.

When they finally pull up in Niall’s beat-up car, Zayn’s in a much better mood, but he still frowns at them when they start getting out of the car. “Took you look enough,” he calls.

“Please, no shouting,” Louis says, clutching at his head. Despite the twilight dimness, he’s wearing sunglasses. “We’ve had a rough enough time of it without you lot on our backs.”

Zayn rolls his eyes but he smiles. “Get over here, then, yeah?”

Both Louis and Niall quicken their paces to see the house for themselves. Harry grins excitedly and lets them in with a flourish. A bit of glitter shoots from his fingertips when he does (he’s just _so_ excited!) and Zayn quickly stoops, blowing it away, shooting a glance at Harry.

Luckily for both of them, Louis and Niall are too distracted to notice.

“Oh my _god_ ,” Louis says, slowly taking his sunglasses off.

The sitting room is crowded with old furniture: a burgundy settee, a dark green armchair with clawed feet, and a maroon rug on the floor, its tassels a dark goldenrod. There’s a dark wood coffee table and some towering bookshelves shoved against the walls that are patterned with a gloomy, peeling wallpaper that’s gone drab over the years. The floors are a dark oak and heavy, dusty curtains completely obscure the outside through the stained, dirty windows.

“There’s no TV,” Niall says with a note of horror.

“Calm down,” Harry says, holding up his hands. “Ours is outside, we just haven’t moved it in yet.”

“You’ve been here all afternoon and you haven’t moved it in yet?” Niall scoffs. “Been sittin’ on your arses out in the sunshine?”

Louis looks at Harry quickly to hear his answer, and Harry doesn’t miss the look of utter longing on his face. It surprises him so much, he nearly takes a step back.

“Oh, like you can talk,” Zayn shoots back.

Niall laughs and they go exploring. Harry remembers it at least a little from his childhood and he takes over as tour guide. There’s a threadbare linen closet and next to it, a hidden dumbwaiter in the wall that he can see Louis and Niall looking at mischievously. He can just imagine the hijinks that are going to ensue and he can feel his blood rushing through him, he’s so thrilled and brilliantly happy, more so than he’s been in a long time. He’s surprised he’s not covered in glitter or turning bright pink; sometimes his magic gets a little out of control.

The downstairs bathroom has a leaky faucet, but the bathtub is like a small swimming pool that has Zayn practically drooling. When Niall and Louis look at him a bit oddly, he shrugs. “I like taking baths! Like you two don’t do weird stuff.”

That makes them look suddenly awkward and unsteady, so Harry ushers them from the room quickly. He knows that there _is_ something up with them, he just doesn’t know what. It’s hard for him to explain, it’s just something he _knows_. He knows it in the way that Louis’ aura never changes, staying a slick silver all the time, and the way that Harry can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen him eat more than little nibbles, and the way that Niall has _something_ shimmering around his own aura, a kind of dark green force-field surrounding his naturally bright aura that alternates between brilliant yellow and vivid teal most of the time, very rarely darkening, he’s just that happy a person. Harry isn’t sure what it is, but he can definitely feel it with his witchy sixth sense—and he’s certain that he’ll eventually find out what it is.

Next are the mud and laundry rooms, the parlor with its tea table and overstuffed chintz chairs with a large carved fireplace, and the little office crammed full of bookshelves stacked high with books that makes Zayn’s eyes light up. There is, however, a layer of dust on absolutely _every_ surface and Harry sneezes four times before they even get upstairs. He makes a mental note to clean as soon as he can.

On the first floor, there’s just the one bedroom, plain in tones of cream and beige, but upstairs there are four more and Harry can see just how much great-great-aunt Delilah spent up there exercising her creative talents. The first one is covered, floor-to-ceiling, in a vibrant mural of yellow and pink flowers in a field in the springtime and Harry can tell it’s the grassy hill outside. In another one, there’s a mural of a dark green forest, and the third is a blue and gray seaside scene.

The fourth one takes a while to get open, the door sticking. It takes Niall and Louis throwing themselves at it; the door slams open and they go sprawling inside, the floor _sagging_ when they land on it. Niall yelps, leaping backward, and Harry casts a spell without thinking, yanking Louis back to him silently, a handful of his shirt zooming into Harry’s fingers. 

Zayn and Niall are too busy shouting and examining the floor that’s weak with rot to notice but Louis is looking up at Harry curiously. “Thanks,” he says, eyeing Harry up and down. “You’re mad quick, did you know that?”

Harry shrugs, laughing it off with a wave of his hand, but his heart is going like a rabbit on the run. He almost just gave himself _away_. In front of Niall, sure, but Louis— _Louis!_ —and he can hardly breathe, because if he found out—if he knew—

He’d leave, wouldn’t he? Who wants to live with a witch? It’s something he’s seen before, heard of through friends of his in the village back home. Witches get found out, they “come out of the broom closet” so to speak, and then people don’t trust them. How do friends and lovers know you’re not putting spells on them? How do they know you mean anything you say when you’re as fickle as the wind and twice as wild? How can they trust you? Never mind that putting spells on people without their permission is against the tenets of Witch-hood (as long as they’re harmful; Harry toes the line with his innocent little calming spells and such), never mind that most witches just want to be left alone to live normal lives. But for regular people, it becomes a _problem_.

And Harry doesn’t want to be a problem for Louis. He wants to be a solution— _the_ solution.

“Rot,” Niall says and Harry jumps, twisting to look at him. “Floor’s gutted. Can’t live in here.” He glances between them. “Someone’s gonna have to take the room downstairs.”

Harry opens his mouth to volunteer, to be nice, but Louis beats him to it. “I’ll take it.” He shrugs when they look at him. “I don’t mind.”

“You sure?”

Harry wants to groan with frustration. Once, he thought it was impossible to live in a different house than Louis, but now he knows the truth of it: Living with him one floor away is going to be hell. How will he ever manage to sleep knowing Louis is both under his roof, and sleeping so far away? Terrible, this whole thing is terrible.

To take his mind off it, he decides they should unpack and at least bring all their things in. Niall groans, complaining he hasn’t had anything to eat all day, and Harry promises to cook for him if he unpacks. Harry’s never seen someone put together a TV stand faster in his life and when all the boxes are crowded in their respective bedrooms (Harry takes the flower field, Niall the forest, and Zayn the seascape) and the living room downstairs, Harry presents his breakfast-at-midnight, though it's not much later than eight. 

He makes up four plates but Louis politely declines with, to Harry’s utter shock, a slight bow.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “I already ate earlier and if I have anything else, I’ll explode.” In fact, just looking at the eggs and sausage is turning him positively green.

“You sure? Because I could—”

Louis lays a hand on Harry’s arm, taking the plate from him. “I’m _fine_ , Harry. C’mon, sit down, you look dead on your feet.” He grins widely at that and Harry has to smile too, not because it’s particularly funny (is he just missing something?) but because Louis—everything about him—is infectious.

Harry follows him obediently and Louis gently pushes him onto the couch, handing him the plate. He passes out all their food for them and hangs around to share in their conversation, most of it mumbled, but before long, all their heads are nodding and Niall has already passed out completely, bits of egg spilled on his chest.

Harry isn’t sure how it happens, but one second he’s laughing at Zayn and holding his plate, and the next he’s being gently carried up the stairs and through his doorway. “Mmph,” he manages and from his ear, there’s a soft laugh. He knows that laugh.

“Shhh. I’ll handle the dishes. Don’t you worry.” True enough, Louis does seem oddly wide awake. Harry wants to ask him about it, but all that comes out is a massive yawn. “Exactly,” Louis says. “Now, come on. Into bed.”

Harry feels warm and comforted by Louis’ soft touches as he takes off his boots and his socks, remarking on how cold his feet are and warming them slightly by rubbing them, but Harry doesn’t feel much difference between his feet and Louis’ hands; they’re quite cold themselves. Louis unzips his jeans at Harry’s insistent mumbled request, staying oddly silent as he peels them off and helps Harry under the blanket he haphazardly threw on the bed earlier.

“There.” Harry feels fingers thread through his curls and then—

His dream starts out with a kiss on his forehead. He knows it’s a dream because there’s no way Louis would have bent to brush his lips against Harry’s skin, none whatsoever.

* * *

Niall gets a job at the local restaurant pretty quickly. It’s not exactly a five-star locale, but the menu is decent and he has fun. Food is his life and preparing it, serving it, is what he gets up in the morning for. Not only that, but he brings home leftovers at night and keeps them eating for free most of the time. Most of them, anyway; Louis doesn’t seem to need to eat very much, but he has a bite or two of Harry’s when he offers.

Zayn’s job falls in their laps a couple days later when he’s investigating the local library and ends up talking to the woman who works there for nearly two hours, walking out with a job. “I’m to start tomorrow! Sorting out their fiction section, because let me tell you mate, it’s a proper _mess_.” Harry listens happily; it’s a perfect job for shy, bookworm Zayn, and he can imagine him just getting lost in the shelves for hours on end.

With Niall and Zayn gone all day almost as soon as they move in, it’s up to Louis and Harry to unpack the rest of their belongings. Only…Louis sleeps all day.

There are a handful of things Harry knows for certain about Louis: He loves Yorkshire tea. He’s older than him. He has some of the most dramatic cheekbones he’s ever seen. He likes football. He loves to laugh. His favorite color is red. He smells wonderful. He’s independently wealthy, with a vast family inheritance that allows him the privilege of not working. And he sleeps all day, only waking when the sun goes down.

But that’s only because he stays up all night playing video games with Niall on the weekends and it’s given him a bad habit—isn’t it?

Harry tries to put it out of his mind. He hasn’t thought about the kiss since That Night—he _hasn’t_ , much anyway—and nothing has really happened since, so he figures it probably never will. Why would it? Louis clearly isn’t interested if he hasn’t made a move since then, and with how different their schedules are, it’s harder and harder to run into him. How wild, that now that they’re living together, they’re further away than ever. It makes him sadder than he ever thought he would be and for a good bit of time, he mopes, glaring moodily at the sunny flower landscape of his bedroom and laying about in nothing but his pants. How dare it be so happy when Louis is so close, yet so distant? It’s _maddening_.

But there’s nothing to be done. So the best thing Harry can do is pull himself up by the heeled-bootstraps, plop his witch’s hat on his head, and _not_ moon over some older boy who’s never going to look at him more than a friend. He’ll live. He always does.

To get his head away from Louis, he does what he knows best: Housekeeping. The house, to be honest, is a bit of a mess. Well, maybe that’s polite: It’s filthy and with all of their boxes beginning to clutter it even more, Harry is on the verge of losing his mind.

So, two weeks into their cohabitation, Harry does what he’s been waiting to do for a long time.

With a flick of his hand, the needle drops down onto the record player he’s hauled into the kitchen. Nina Simone’s voice comes crooning out and Harry grins.

_“I put a spell on you…’cause you’re mine…”_

He dances along, twirling slowly in the kitchen on one foot before he snaps his fingers, calling forth the broom.

Nothing happens.

Harry frowns. “Broom,” he calls, snapping his fingers again, feeling the jolt of magic rise to the surface of his skin before casting out. There’s a slight rattling from the cupboard in the hall, but nothing happens. 

He sighs.  He claps his hands, magic sprouting between his palms. “Okay,” he says, watching the magic glitter and swirl in the air around him in streams of green and gold. “We’re going to clean! Bring me the broom and dustpan.”

When the supplies don’t immediately move and rush to begin making what he wants—again—his face falls. “Oh, come on,” he pleads. “I know it was odd to move, but we live here now! You can come out and play.” He taps a finger on his chin, remembering an instance when a particularly stubborn mint plant hadn’t done as he’d wanted. “Please?”

The cupboard shoots open so quickly it almost hits the opposite wall and Harry laughs aloud. The broom and mop come dancing out, almost akin to that scene in _Fantasia_ , and the dustpan and bucket follow excitedly after them, hovering in the air. Harry claps his hands together and they zoom off to get to work.

The broom whips around, sweeping quickly, the dustpan trailing after it and picking up its mess. When it’s finished, the dustpan flies to the trash, pouring itself out. Harry sends them out into the sitting room with a flick of his hand; that room could definitely use it, too. The faucet switches on then in a loud hiss of running water and steam, tumbling into the wash bucket. It fills quickly and carries itself off slowly, careful not to spill, and the mop gets to work with a jaunty splash.

The feather duster peeks its head out of the cupboard almost shyly, and Harry beckons it closer with a finger. He pets its feathers softly before asking it to venture out into the sitting room where the mantel and bookshelves badly need to be dusted. It spins excitedly in agreement and floats cheerily away.

“Cat crunchies,” he says, pointing to them in their bag across the room. They jump into the air, tipping into Felix’s little bowl. Harry can hear his collar jingling as he comes running down the stairs; he pads into the kitchen, amber eyes glowing happily at Harry as he trots to the dish and starts to eat. Harry pets him, smacking a kiss against his soft head. Felix shakes him off imperiously, a child brushing off his over-bearing mother. 

"Someone's going through puberty," Harry murmurs.

Felix looks up at him, bits of crunchies clinging to his mouth. " _Mrrow_."

"Oi, watch that tone there, my lad."

Harry swears that Felix rolls his eyes, turning his attention entirely back to his dish. 

Harry grins, snapping his fingers at the kettle. It fills next, settling itself on the stove, the fire lighting beneath it without so much as an afterthought from Harry.

 _I love magic_ , he thinks, as he twirls around the kitchen, dodging the mop, levitating off the floor when it tries to mop over his naked toes. He laughs when it flicks water at him playfully and he sticks his tongue out at it, making a face. He floats in the air, hands behind his head, eyes closing in lazy contentment as the mop and broom do their work. He hums along to Nina Simone, her words trickling into his ears in a heady stream, the thrum of the blues washing over him.  

 _“I love you, I love you anyhow…_ ”

Harry sings along softly. “And I don’t care if you don’t want me, I’m yours right now…”

He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help thinking of Louis.

* * *

Louis wakes from a deep sleep, eyes snapping open almost at once. He’s not sure what could have woken him so suddenly, especially during the day, leaving him feeling confused, the cobwebs of sleep still hanging around in his eyes. His chest aches, and he’s painfully aware of that his heart isn’t beating for one of the first times in over a hundred years, the emptiness hollowing him out, making him hungry. He could _actually_ just be hungry, for food rather than some abstract feeling he can’t name, but the _point_ is that something woke him. Something…odd.

 _Louis_. He hears the distant whisper, can feel the ghost of a wish crawling through his mind like a dainty spider on a thread in the early hours of morning just after dawn, dew still clinging to its web, sparkling like jewels as the day wakens. It’s soft and sad, gone in a breath like a lover’s sigh.

Slowly, he sits up, everything coming over him at once, his senses immediately alert and on fire: there are mice in the walls behind his bed and he can hear them breathing as they sleep; the bushes outside his window are blowing in the breeze, their dry leaves scraping each other; and, oddly enough, he smells lemon and vinegar and salt, all mingling together, coming from somewhere in the house. On top of that, there’s music.

The time, he can tell from smell alone, is just after ten in the morning. He _should_ be sleeping. It’s past his bedtime. Being up this late feels terrible; even through the walls and glass and curtains of the house, he can _feel_ the energy of the sun beating down, his skin itching, mouth dry, and his head throbbing like he’s got a bad hangover. It must be a sunny day, otherwise he wouldn’t feel so awful.

But _what_ woke him up?

He hears a banging from somewhere in the house, followed by a tinkling laugh. He can’t remember what day it is, but he can tell by the moon phase; it’s Tuesday. That means Niall is working until the afternoon and Zayn is as well. There can only be one person in the house then, making all the noise.

He takes a harsh breath, the ache in his chest more present than ever. He’s almost certain if his heart could beat, it would be skipping at the thought of him and Harry alone in the house, _awake_ at the same time.

He focuses his hearing, closing his eyes. Music. The rumbling of a needle twisting through the grooves of a record, scratching, around and around. Blues. He recognizes the artist; he was alive when this record was a hit in the UK. He hears water, dripping against a solid surface; the brush of a feather against wood; the heaviness of dust being torn away in a sigh; the vibrations of vocal cords, rubbing alongside each other, creating sound like a finger tipping over violin strings, words and hums of a boy mingling together into the sweetest music he’s ever heard.

He sighs quietly. Harry’s voice was there, in his head, and he feels like those vocal chords, feels like the plucked strings of a guitar, the feeling humming through him still. He wants to live in that sound, wants to love in it.

There’s something else, though, something Louis can’t put his finger on. He can’t put a name to it, can’t describe its taste or smell or sound. It doesn’t make sense. The only thing he can think of is _energy_ , crackling and whistling through the air in strange streaming waves, like sound and light moving over each other in colors, in tones, like a flag rippling in the wind, each of its movements chiming musically. Each wave is made up of thousands of tiny motes, like dust in beams of sunlight falling in through a window, and each one is something new, some new sight and sound and burst of flavor on his tongue. He can’t put it into words, into rational thought. All he can think is that each mote is a color, a sound, a feeling, a memory, and altogether in those streams, they are a life: lived, living, to be lived; the past, present, and future all colliding at the same time.

He has to know what that is. He has to know why those motes are clinging to Harry like sunlight, like specks of glitter in the earthy-brown curls of his hair. He has to know why that energy has settled over that creamy skin like a field of stars.

Louis slips out of bed, tiptoeing towards his door. He flicks the lock and opens it, just the barest inch. The feeling of those streams fills the air, like a haze of pollen from a hundred roses, and he can _feel_ it on his skin, prickling wildly, can taste it on his tongue as breathes it into his lungs; it’s everywhere all at once and he’s actually dizzied by it, by _something_ , for the first time in nearly hundreds of years.

Standing in his doorway, he cocks his head and listens.

* * *

The kettle whistles loudly, happily, from its place on the stove, and Harry is yanked from his reverie. He keeps floating in the air, twirling one finger at the kettle. The smell of tea, rich and earthy, fills the air as it rises from the stove and tips to pour into a mug. When it settles itself back down, it breathes out a contented sigh of steam. Harry gets an idea at that. 

Harry cups his hands together around his mouth and blows; a cloud of steam whirls out of his mouth in a spiral. He lets himself fall to the floor, testing it with his toes; sure enough, the floor is dry now. He sends the mop and bucket into the sitting room, dodging the broom as it comes pirouetting back, the dustpan trotting along after it obediently. They rid themselves of the dirt from the sitting room and the parlor, and when Harry thanks them with a zap of magic, they go back into their cupboard.

Harry sets the kitchen going by itself: Rags washing down the cupboards and countertops with a mixture of lemon and vinegar; a scrub-brush attacking the stains in the sink with salt; sponges squeaking happily over the stove, oven, and refrigerator with a mixture of baking soda and lavender. He summons some candles from his room upstairs, aligning them in little glass cups and setting them to float in the air, lighting them with several snaps of his fingers.

He goes into the sitting room and throws open the curtains, coughing when a cloud of dust springs free. He opens the windows, sending the dust outside, airing out the room as he siphons the rest of the dust and cobwebs free from the curtains with his fingers. He levitates the furniture and the carpet for the mop, Harry biting his lip with the effort; the bookshelves are heavy, and holding that many items at once requires a bit more concentration than he’s used to. The mop must sense his urgency because it finishes quickly and he blows out a breath of steam before he sets it all back down, his hands shaking slightly.

He hovers while the mop finishes and he sends it into the kitchen to wring itself out; its bops along as it goes, pleased at a job well done. Even after it’s gone, he stays floating. Sometimes, it’s just easier and of course, loads more fun. 

He siphons the dust out of the carpet the same way he did with the curtains and thanks the duster for finishing, too. After that, he sets rags to washing the windows and oiling the wooden furniture to keep it looking fresh and glowing. The air is fragrant with the smells of lavender, olive oil, citrus, and the fresh scent of his candles in the kitchen. Still, a little more can’t hurt, right?

“Petals,” Harry says, thinking hard, picturing them in his drawer upstairs. “Rose and…rosemary, I think. If you please!”

In one of the loveliest sights he’s ever seen, a handful of rose petals and sprigs of rosemary come floating slowly down the stairs in waft of fragrance. When they reach him, they spin around him merrily and he laughs, dancing with them for a moment before he sends them to their destination: beneath the cushions of the couch, the settee, and the old chair for their scent and loveliness.

Nina Simone is crooning at him in French from the record player in the kitchen and he hums along, continuing to dance long after the petals have been put to rest, their scent lingering all around him as magic flies from his fingers, filling the air with a heady glimmer, his entire body peaceful and relaxed as his hair twirls behind him.

* * *

The dark smoky voice of Nina Simone pulls Louis from his room. His feet don’t make any sound on the hardwood floor as he tiptoes towards the sitting room.

When he peeks around the corner, what he sees stuns him—in more ways than one.

At first, all he sees is the light and it burns his eyes; he opens his mouth in a soundless snarl, pulling back behind the wall, squeezing his eyes shut tight. Then, opening his eyes a tiny fraction, he peers around the wall once more, working up to it, squinting, waiting for his weak eyes to adjust. Then all he sees is Harry, his silhouette filling the room, spinning effortlessly in the middle of it all.

He’s not wearing anything but a pair of star-patterned pants, his body lithe and sinuous as he moves, and Louis can see every defined muscle move and contort beneath his skin. His chest is artfully arranged with tattoos, one of his arms similarly inked, but with his wild movements, Louis can only catch a glimpse of a large butterfly on his stomach, its wings seeming to flap and beat at the air with Harry, dancing along with him. 

He’s singing along to the record, absolutely mangling the French, but Louis can hear the song itself and he can hear the words in his head. Though the language now is somewhat different than it was when Louis learned, it is still, by and large, his first language so he translates in his head. He knows the song; better yet, he knows the words, feeling them reverberate through his ribs, panging off his motionless heart.

_“I will offer you_   
_pearls made of rain_   
_coming from countries_   
_where it never rains._   
_I will work the earth_   
_until I die_   
_to cover your body with gold and light._   
_I will create a kingdom for you,_   
_where love will be the king_   
_where love will be the law_   
_where you will be the queen…”_

The song continues and Louis bites his lip, the words twisting around him like that feeling of energy in the air. 

_“I will invent for you_   
_meaningless words_   
_that you will understand._   
_I will speak to you_   
_of these lovers_   
_that we’ve seen twice_   
_their hearts embracing each other._   
_I will tell you_   
_the story of this king_   
_who died of not being able_   
_to get to know you…”_

He says nothing, doesn’t breathe (doesn’t need to anyway), just watches, enthralled, spellbound, hypnotized as Harry bends and whirls and seems to float in the air, his movements that poised and easy, that gentle and graceful.

_“…I won’t speak anymore_   
_I will hide right there_   
_to see you_   
_dancing and smiling_   
_and to listen to you_   
_sing and then laugh_   
_let me become_   
_the shadow of your shadow_   
_the shadow of your hand_   
_the shadow of your dog_   
_don’t leave me…”_

It isn’t until the song ends that Louis feels he can move, the spell broken. Only then does he notice. Only then does he truly _see_.

There are things moving all across the room. Books are rearranging themselves on the shelves, zooming in and out of new spaces; rags are wiping down the coffee table and the windows, their glass panes soapy; the curtains are quivering as though they’re hiding giggling, squirming children; the pictures on the mantel are shaking, too, in time with the music. Louis watches, blinking, as a cup of what he imagines is tea zooms out of the kitchen _through the air_ and onto the coffee table, settling itself neatly on a coaster. Steam curls up from inside it and Louis _swears_  it made the same curls as Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.”

But that isn’t the most surprising. Well, it is, but it's hitting him all at once, his eyes darting around the room, taking it all in. What’s _really_ the most surprising out of all of it is that Harry moves out from behind the couch where he’d been dancing, and Louis sees that he’s _hovering_ —in the air. There has to be at least six inches of raw, empty space, just pure air, between his toes, their nails sparkling with glittery polish, and the floor.

Harry is floating. _In the air_.

Louis makes a noise before he can stop himself, twisting around so his back is against the wall, his hand clutching uselessly at his own chest, grabbing a hold of his t-shirt. If his heart could beat, it’d be _wild_ , on fire, emotions pouring out of him like lava. What did he just see? Was that real?

 _Asks the vampire_ , he thinks sardonically, rolling his eyes at himself, but he has to be sure. Louis looks back out just to be sure. Harry is gone, which sends a lance of panic through Louis at the idea that he might be caught watching him, but then it turns into a kind of dizzying seasickness, as he sees the rags and books and photos still moving of their own accord.

Well, _almost_ their own accord.

Because now it makes sense. Those strange streams of dynamism clinging to Harry like mist, the thick of it in the air—it all makes absolute clear, perfect sense: Harry’s a witch. He wasn’t just dressed as a witch back in October, he _was_ one. That was how he managed to catch Louis when he fell that day when they first moved in, that’s why there’s always been something so energetic about him, a kind of glow about his person, a light emanating from his very being. Louis always sensed it, _recognized_ it, he just couldn’t put a name to it. But now he knows.

Louis thinks of the way they were all dressed as themselves at Halloween Spooktacular Funland and he has to bite his lip, hard. Sometimes, things are _exactly_ as they seem. A thousand years and he still hasn’t learned.

He has a memory, one he hasn’t revisited much since he and Niall met Harry and Zayn that night, back in October. It’s of someone he knew a long time ago, someone with brown hair, startling green eyes, and a way of doing things that felt like there was something else at work, some kind of force…something like magic. He knew him at a dangerous time in the world, during a time when being different was considered something to be feared—but Louis had loved him anyway, despite his reservations, despite the worry of discovery. He had loved him with all of his brittle, faithless heart—and he had lost him.

Or so he thought.

Louis covers his mouth with one hand but he can’t help it. He laughs. He laughs all the way back to his room, laughs his way through locking the door, and laughs as he tumbles back into bed in the dark cocoon of his room. He laughs at the incredulity, at the wonder, at the very idea of it. Because it’s just too funny, isn’t it? That he would meet Harry, that he would be who he is, that there would be this opportunity that maybe, just maybe, Louis was meant to have a second chance. That Louis, of all people, terror of the ages, would be given a gift like this.

What’s more is that, as much as he _wanted_ to believe it would happen, he didn’t, not really. It all comes back to that century he spent in India and this belief in _samsara—_ reincarnation. He wanted to think he would meet that boy’s soul again, but he never imagined it would be in this life. He thought he’d be long dead, become dust after too many millennia. But he _was_ , after all, virtually immortal. All it took was a little bit of waiting around and a night in chilly autumn to jump out at a boy and find him all over again.

And that’s the thing. That’s the funniest, most amazing bit of it all.

It’s _magic_.

No, wait, it’s not. It is, but it’s not the best part.

Louis smiles to himself, closing his eyes. His last thought before he’s spiraling down into sleep is, _h_ _e’s magic._

* * *

_April_

It just figures that, on the day they’re trying to take a picture outside in front of their new house, the sun decides it might like to actually see England. Typical. What a wretchedly sunny spring they're having. He'd never tell anyone, especially not Niall, but Louis misses it. Sometimes. 

“Nope,” Louis says. “No way.”

“Oh come on,” Niall pleads. “Please please please?”

“Absolutely not. I’m not risking death so you can have a picture for all of your social networking needs.”

“It’s not just for that, it’s for us, y’know? To commemorate the moment and all that.” He puts on his best puppy dog pout. “ _Please_.”

In answer, Louis just folds his arms over his chest and turns his nose up, closing his eyes. He was once the sovereign of a nation—twice, actually, now that he thinks about it—so, in no way, shape or form does he have to give in to whiny werewolves. He is a figure of stone, of _iron_. He is resolute. His foot is _down_.

Niall huffs. “What’s the point of just takin’ a picture with me and Zayn, then?”

Well. He _was_ resolute. Louis cracks an eye open and looks at Niall, frowning quizzically at that. “What do you mean, just you and Zayn?”

“Harry refuses to get in the picture unless you are. So it’d just be the two of us.” Niall looks down at his brand new iPhone forlornly. “I just wanted a picture of my lads.”

 _No_ , Louis tries telling himself sternly, even as he feels his resolve start to crumble. _You are not going to do it. It is at least very bright out there, if not dazzling, you are absolutely_ not _going to give in and—_

He sighs, groaning theatrically, throwing his hands up in the air. “Oh, all right. But if I die—and I mean for real this time—it’s completely your fault.”

Niall beams, lighting up the entire room like the sun outside. “Brilliant, Lou! No worries, we’ll cover you up from head to toe. Where’s Zayn, he’s got all those umbrellas…” He goes shooting off, shouting for Zayn in a voice that surely must carry down to the village below.

Louis stands there in their sitting room, looking at the open front door leading down the steps, to the sunny lane below. He is up far past his bedtime, but in the last few months, it’s been happening more and more often, becoming a part of his routine. Since he saw Harry dancing, he just can’t stay away.

It started with him getting up earlier, in the afternoon rather than when the sun would set. Harry had gotten a job by then as the administrator in the local vet’s office. He saw more horses than he had in the city now, but there were still the dogs and cats and rabbits and birds to keep him happy. There was even the occasional ferret, he reportedly delighted, and sometimes even lizards and turtles. Louis could listen to him talk about animals for ages, paying attention only to that glimmer of excitement and fondness in his leaf-green eyes.

Harry worked mornings mostly, so Louis started rising earlier and they would spend the afternoons together. It meant Louis had to take naps in the middle of the night, but that didn’t bother him at all. He got to spend more time with Harry and that was worth all the sleeplessness in all the world. 

Then it became him staying up later, after one morning when he’d done it simply to smash Niall in a game of FIFA, and he’d gotten the absolutely brilliant chance to see Harry wake up. His curls were a forest, a mess blown wildly across his shoulders, and his eyes were heavy with the remnants of dreams, dust and light still clinging to his eyelashes. It was mesmerizing to watch him. All of his movements were sleepy, slow, and he was deliciously warm and rumpled. As much as Louis was drawn to his body _,_ seeing him in the morning he wanted nothing more than to rest his cheek against Harry’s wide back and breathe his loveliness, his sweet wondering essence, deep inside him where it would never have to be expelled, where it could stay and give some semblance of life to him.

Now it was just an accepted thing that Louis was awake in the late afternoons and early mornings. It was hell—sometimes, he physically could _not_ wake himself up, because his body was quite literally failing from the lack of sleep—and sometimes he looked quite rough, the dark circles under his eyes particularly pronounced, his skin even more waxy and pale than usual, but he was finally at a place in his life where he could say he had no regrets. After being alive for more than a thousand years, that was quite a triumph, if he did say so himself.

When Niall asked him about it, he didn’t really know what to say. _I’m in love with our flatmate—and guess what, he’s a witch? I can’t stop thinking about him and the spell he has over me?_ In all the lives he’d lived, he had never been speechless before.

“Christ,” Niall said, shaking his head. “You’re mad for him, aren’t you?”

Louis just shrugged, trying to play it off as cool, but lying had never really been his strong suit. He was unfalteringly honest, sometimes to a fault.

Niall rolled his eyes, letting out a deep breath. “Not a good idea, mate.”

“Don’t you think I _know_ that?” Louis snapped. He’d been trying to talk himself out of it for _months_. But even as undead as he was, he still had feelings, desires. He still felt love, adoration, wonder—and damned if Harry wasn’t making him feel every single one of those just about every day, every moment. 

Along that, he also felt confusion, curiosity. Why hadn't Harry told them? Surely he had to know, no quirk in all the world would make them love him any less. That went for all of them; he had become Niall's kid brother in all but blood relation now, and he knew that neither of them would have an issue with it. Louis dwelled on it for a while before it occurred to him: He was doing the exact same thing. He hadn't exactly introduced himself as a vampire—not seriously, anyway, and nobody but he knew Niall was a werewolf, either. They were all liars of a fashion, all clinging tightly to their secrets. So it didn't bother him that Harry hadn't said anything yet. He was willing to wait as long it would take, and he was determined to show Harry that nothing like that would ever be a problem, not for him. 

If anything, it seemed more like a solution to his long life.  _The_ solution. He would never be bored ever again. 

And now he’s found himself at Harry’s mercy, completely willing to step outside, _during the day_ , in nearly full sun, just to make Harry happy. What a life. 

He looks around, failing to suppress a smile. Harry has cleaned practically every inch of the house, unpacking organizing and decorating and rearranging, and it’s beautiful. It feels like theirs, now. In the sitting room are the remnants of their shared life together: Harry’s numerous scarves and witch hat hanging by the front door, a sight that makes Louis smirk every time he sees it; Niall’s cookbooks still stacked haphazardly beside the bookshelf rather than on it; Zayn’s sketchbook patterned with waves sitting on the coffee table. He’s not quite sure how he went from being a vampire with just one buzzing werewolf for a friend, to having two more friends in his life at the…well, at the drop of a hat, really.

It’s the most wonderful feeling in the world, finding home in people, rather than places. He wasn’t sure he’d ever feel it again, not with how long he’d been alive, but sure enough, it happened and he feels as though maybe this is _why_ he’s been alive so long. He was always just waiting for the right people to be born, to meet them when the stars aligned.

And now they have, and it’s home.

He looks out the open front door and shakes his head, laughing to himself. They might be the death of him, but he can’t help thinking that it would be the best way to go.

* * *

“Okay, guys. Ready?” Niall calls. He’s got his iPhone set up on a little tripod he got off the internet, and he’s fiddling with the timer.

“Yes, just get over here already!” Louis shouts back, pushing his sunglasses further up his nose.

Harry can’t help sliding a look at him. He’s dressed so oddly that the first time Harry set eyes on him, he laughed in utter surprise. He’s wearing almost all white: White shirt, white coat in a style that seems vintage to Harry, as though it’s from the 1800s, white sunglasses, white beanie, and white gloves. His jeans are grey, his shoes black and white-checkered Vans. He holds one of Zayn’s many umbrellas over his head, this one white as well.

“Are you all right?” Harry had asked, because with the sunlight, it had to be _boiling_ in all those clothes.

Louis’ lips lifted at that in a faint smile, even though he was gripping the umbrella so hard that his hands were visibly trembling. He nodded. “I’m okay. I just have a…condition.”

“Condition?”

“I’m allergic to the sun, if you can believe it.” He shook the umbrella slightly. "White repels it."

Well. That certainly explained his habit of not leaving the house during the day, ever, if he could help it. It explained a lot of things about him, actually: His fair skin and his light eyes, the almost bloodless color of his fingernails and lips (not that Harry had been looking, nope). He probably had a very serious Vitamin D deficiency. He probably needed all sorts of herbs and vitamins. Harry started a list in his head. 

Harry jerked a thumb at Zayn, too, also holding an umbrella. “He’s sensitive to it as well. Dries his skin out like mad.”

“Really?” Louis lowered his sunglasses ever so slightly, eyeing Zayn over the edge of them. “Is that…a hereditary thing?”

Harry nodded slowly. He wanted to tell Louis everything—that he was a witch, that Zayn was a siren—but he didn’t know where to begin. More than anything, he was afraid that Louis and Niall both would think differently of them, perhaps even find them some kind of…monsters. He couldn’t bear the thought. They had all just found each other; they couldn’t lose each other so soon, not like that.

Someday, he’d say something. But for now, he was content to let his secrets sleep.

Now, however, Harry understands—and it’s not so odd after all.

Louis mutters something under his breath, and Zayn looks at him, eyebrows raised. “Was that in French, mate?”

“What? No. I said _get a move on, already_.”

“Really? It sounded like French—”

“It wasn’t, trust me.” Louis laughs loudly, eyes crinkling. “I’m shit at languages. If I knew another one, you'd know because I’d use it all the time and annoy the piss out of you lot.”

Niall runs over to them then, breathing hard, light blue eyes sparkling. “Ten seconds, boys, sharpen up!” He jams himself in between Harry and Zayn, pushing Harry into Louis’ side, nearly sending Louis pitching to the ground. 

“Sorry,” Harry mutters, certain his face is as inflamed as the sun itself, the heat bearing down all around them. “Nutter, that one.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Louis grins. “But it’s okay. Here.” He wraps an arm around Harry and pulls him in close, holding him against his body. Despite the warmth of the air and the many clothes Louis is wearing, Harry feels as though he’s been pulled against an ice statue, he’s _that_ cold and solid. Harry looks down at him, frowning in confusion; he shivers and Louis’ grip tightens.

Harry kind of likes it. He’s confused, but that doesn’t seem to matter; _that’s_ how far gone he is.

Louis and Zayn, the umbrella-holders, frame their group from the outside, Harry and Niall between them. Niall throws his arms around Harry and Zayn both, cheesing a wide grin. “Okay, five seconds,” he says through his teeth. “Smile! You, too, Lou.”

Louis grins at that, eyes crinkling like he’s got a secret, like he _knows_ a secret, and the shutter goes off.

Later, when Harry is scrolling through Instagram on his own phone, he sees the photo come across his feed. Niall’s thrown some kind of filter on it— _Rise_ , Harry thinks it is—and it makes them look golden and bright, happier than even the sun could have accomplished. Niall has his arms around Zayn’s and Harry’s shoulders, his eyes shut from how hard he’s grinning, and Louis is practically curled in against Harry, his hand gently clutching Harry’s waist. He's so bright, he's almost a flare; Harry chalks it up to his nearly all-white ensemble. His gaze, however, focuses in on that small, delicate hand on his waist. He can still feel it if he thinks about it, that soft icy grip, sending shivers racing through him and not just because Louis is almost unnaturally wintry. He's never wanted somebody so simply, so acutely, so entirely. He thinks about him all the time. 

He wonders if Louis thinks about him, too. 

They look timeless in their picture, like it’s a photo in an old abandoned house that Niall just happened to find. Harry has a strange feeling that this has happened before, that they’ve done this all in another time, another place, all of them walking distant paths through time together. They look perfect, he thinks, like this is precisely where they’re supposed to be right now, like this is  _who_ they're supposed to be with. 

He taps on the screen of his phone twice, smiling.

A week later, there’s a framed copy of it sitting front and center on the mantel, and nobody asks how or who or why. It’s exactly where it’s meant to be. 

**Author's Note:**

> okay if there are any typos, i'm sorry, i feel like i went over it pretty well but sometimes they slip past you
> 
> -the record Harry is listening to is Nina Simone's "I Put a Spell On You" and the song that's in French is _"Ne Me Quitte Pas"_ , Edith Piaf does a really lovely version that is probably my fave. I also got those from a lyric translating website, so if they're wrong, I'm SORRY
> 
> also that bit with harry cleaning is based in part off [this video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L7R35qjky7w) and you should probably watch it because it's cute and amazing


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